


Awaken The Heat In Me

by CrystalViolin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Dom Sherlock, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sub John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:28:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrystalViolin/pseuds/CrystalViolin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP. Sherlock wants to watch John come apart, but John isn't the only one losing his inhibitions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awaken The Heat In Me

**Author's Note:**

> My first little fic, written with love ... *cough* lust.

The darkness was penetrating as the clock struck midnight. Sherlock lay back on the sofa with his fingers steepled under his chin, his thoughts crystal clear as though he were working on a particularly taxing case. The cold made him more alert. His senses were heightening as his body began to shiver due to the draught making its way through the creaking flat of 221b.  
“The heating won’t be working tonight, boys! Fixed tomorrow though, hopefully,” Mrs Hudson had chirped earlier that day as she brought the shopping in. Apparently half of Baker Street were having heating and electricity issues. The buildings were extremely old, after all. It was all fine and well in Victorian England, but now the cracks in the brickwork were starting to show.  
Sherlock’s mind, however, wasn’t on menial tasks such as trying to find out what was wrong with the heating in order to fix it. His mind was on John.  
Was John freezing to death up there? Was he shivering too? Was his breath making clouds of condensation that dispersed quickly into the air around him?  
The consulting detective heaved a sigh and lifted himself up from the sofa as he padded through the corridor and up the stairs that led to John’s small bedroom. Upon slowly opening the door, he saw that his friend was wide awake and laying on his side.  
“Sherlock, what the-?”  
Sherlock shut the door with a click and moved over to the bed with deliberate slowness before sitting down atop the sheets.  
John raised a sceptical eyebrow and propped himself up on his elbow. “Maybe I should rephrase that. What the hell are you doing in my bedroom at past midnight? I have work in the morning.”  
“You’re still awake. You’ve been awake all evening.”  
“Yes, but-”  
“It’s too cold for your body to shut down for the night. The discomfort it’s causing you is keeping you from falling asleep. Why do you think we cover ourselves at night, John? Heat helps the process-”  
John held up his finger to stop Sherlock, but as ever Sherlock continued.  
“-And why do you think the mundane, ordinary people of today take brisk walks in the morning before work? Because the cold air causes alertness of the mind.”  
John rolled his eyes irritably. “I’m a doctor, you realise. I’m not as thick as you sometimes like to make out. Jesus, Sherlock.”  
“There is a remedy for the cold, of course…”  
“And what’s that? More jumpers? Tea? Hot water bottles?”  
“Two people in one bed.”  
John didn't reply, but merely stared at Sherlock through shock-stricken eyes. He almost huffed a laugh.  
“You heard me, John. Sharing body heat. It’s the only way either of us are going to get any sleep tonight.”  
“Are you out of your mind? No, wait… Don’t answer th-“  
“John.”  
Sherlock stared down his friend, his icy eyes intense. He could feel his heartbeat quickening as John ran his tongue over his lower lip in either exasperation or deep thought.  
Finally John shook his head and budged up slightly.  
“If you’re that bloody desperate, then get in. But I’m going to pretend you’re not here, if you don’t mind. Oh and don’t you dare tell anyone about this. I don’t think I can deal with the looks of Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson.”  
Sherlock scooted in and pulled his half of the covers over himself. “Mm. Wouldn’t dare.”

The men lay side by side in the darkness. Sherlock’s eyes were open, John’s were shut, but neither of the men were tired. In fact, everything was buzzing. Silence was surprisingly loud sometimes.  
Sherlock turned his head ever so slowly to take a good look at the profile of the man beside him. The sandy hair flecked with salt and pepper grey, the slightly upturned nose, the long but fair eyelashes, the thin lips. Sherlock found his own lips parting with a fierce desire to touch his friend. The friend who had saved his life countless times, the friend he hadn’t even said a proper ‘thank you’ to. With a feather-like gentleness that was quite alien to Sherlock, he began to stroke his long violinist fingers down the side of John’s face. The other man opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock with a furrowed brow and an expression of utter confusion. The confusion soon turned to realisation, however, as Sherlock hand continued to caress down John’s bare arm.  
The silence was pressing in on their ears, with nothing but touch and the slightest bit of sight being their prominent senses. The shuddering in John’s breath was delightful. It triggered something in Sherlock. Something feral. Something animal. His ever observant mind hadn’t even realised that he’d stopped shivering from the cold. His body heat must have increased dramatically as he shifted slightly closer to his flatmate, his hand on John’s waist. He gripped. John moaned. It was a soft, almost desperate sound and Sherlock felt a sudden surge of warmth and pleasure shoot to his groin.  
For weeks he had deduced John’s ‘hidden’ feelings for him and he was working out the best way to get John to admit to them. Well, nothing better than a flat without heating and a spacious double bed.  
Sherlock slipped his hand into John’s boxer shorts and wrapped his fingers firmly around John’s now semi-hard cock. The sight of John biting down his lower lip and trying so hard not to be needy was a picture of amusement for Sherlock. The street lamps from outside bathed them in a strange orange glow that seemed to highlight and intensify the expressions of both men.  
“I thought you were pretending I wasn’t here,” Sherlock whispered, his lips now dangerously close to the shell of John’s ear.  
“That’s not easy when you’re touching my cock, you utter git.”  
Sherlock smirked and palmed John’s thickening flesh with a deliberate force that made John’s army-like defiance shatter. “Oh God yes…”  
Sherlock’s narrow eyes were watching, unblinking, as his flatmate came to pieces in front of him. It was like a study. A highly erotic, filthy and long-awaited study. Sherlock wanted to map this man’s skin out beneath his hands and learn of every goosebump that was rapidly rising on his forearms and every stray hair that stuck up as a result. Sherlock had never been overly interested in sex and he barely operated on the level of his unintelligent, sex-obsessed peers in finding people sexually attractive. But there was always John. He’d always had a fascination with the man. This stalwart friend who never seemed fazed when handling a gun, never thought twice when killing another man in defense, never strode too far behind Sherlock’s quick pace.  
“John, look at me.”  
John’s eyes had shut of their own accord but now he forced them open, two dark blue orbs clouded over in pleasure. A desperate whine tore itself from his throat.  
“Don’t close your eyes, don’t even think about turning away,” Sherlock’s tone was dangerous, his own cock painfully hard in his pyjama trousers.  
“Ngh, fuck... Sherlock...” John tilted his head back into the pillow a little; his eyes still trained to Sherlock’s, his heavy eyelids were threatening to close every time Sherlock’s wrist happened to flick in a particularly delicious way.  
Sherlock knew the logistics of sex, the mechanics. But he never thought lust could have this effect on his mind. He was completely and utterly consumed by the sight of John. The level of frustration brought about by not tending to his own cock was almost angering him. He yanked at the other man’s short hair as a result and bit at the juncture between his neck and his shoulder, causing John to yelp. The sound was like music to Sherlock’s ears. He chuckled darkly in response, his voice lower and more silk-like than ever.  
“Do you want me to fuck you next time, John?” he breathed.  
“Christ. Yes…”  
“Open your eyes. Come on.”  
John’s eyes flashed open again after having momentarily shut in his pleasure. He sought Sherlock’s gaze.  
Sherlock grinned and licked lightly and teasingly around John’s mouth as he continued to pump his fist on John’s erection. “And how would you like me to fuck you? Shall I have you bent over the kitchen table? Or maybe on the sofa? I’d actually quite like to pin you, your hands flat against the wall… your face twisted to the side, my cock buried deep inside your arse from behind. Yes.”  
Sherlock could feel wetness in his own trousers. His body was begging for release. The feel of John’s flesh… and the sounds he was making – it was a recipe for wanton desire. Sherlock took his left hand out of John’s hair and slipped two fingers between John’s parted lips.  
“Suck,” he ordered, his gaze unwavering as John closed his mouth around the digits and started to run his tongue between the fingers. “So obedient.”  
“Fuck you,” John growled, his voice obscured a little. Sherlock grit his teeth and pressed his fingers in deeper, just stroking the entrance of John’s throat and causing the other man to gag.  
“Looks like we have to work on that,” Sherlock whispered. He pressed a tender kiss just under John’s ear. He slipped his wet fingers from his mouth. “I’ll be expecting you to swallow like a good boy…”  
John threw his head back and came painfully hard. It was a sight Sherlock was unlikely to forget.


End file.
